New Orleans at that time was a city of about thirty thousand inhabitants. It was the chief commercial and social capital of the South, and thoroughly8 conscious of its pre-eminence. On its small but concentrated scale it was the gayest, most Parisian city in the country. The Spanish and French blood of the original settlers of Louisiana and of their early followers9 was largely represented in its leading families. Then and there the chivalry10 of the slave-holding South, in all its patrician11 characteristics both of virtue12 and of vice13, was at the acme14 of its glory. The types of men were unquestionably the most varied15 and sharply defined and pushed to the greatest extremes of development, the freedom and beauty of the women the most intoxicating16 and dangerous, the social life the most voluptuous17, passionate18, and reckless, of those of any city in the United States. Wealth was great, easily found, carelessly lost, leisure ample, pride intense, living luxurious19, manly20 sports and exercises in physical training assiduously cultivated, gambling21 common, duelling and every form of desperate personal conflict constant, the code of man
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ners alternately bewitching in courtesy and terrible in ferocity. From every part of the State the gentlemen planters loved to congregate23 in New Orleans, perfect masters of their limbs, their faculties24, their weapons, and their horses, not knowing fear or embarrassment25, living their thoughts and passions spontaneously out, their tall forms aflush with bold sensibility, the rich strength and grace of the thoroughbred pointing their elastic26 motions. And in the parlor27, the ball-room, at fashionable resorts, on the promenades28, the women were the peers of the men in their intensity29 of being, their fondness of adventure, their courage, brilliance30, and piquancy31. The crossing of tropical bloods, the long lineage of aristocratic habitudes of ardent32 indulgence and leisurely33 culture, had produced a class of women famed throughout the land for the symmetry of their forms, the visible music of their movements, the dreamy softness of their voices, and the bewildering charm of their eyes, swimming seas of languor34 and fire. Many an imaginative and burning nature asked no other paradise than the arms of these Creole houris. But, unfortunately, the reverse of being immortal35, its dissolving views melted into degradation36 and vanished in death, too often with accompaniments of frantic37 jealousy38, crime, and horror.
These men and these women, naturally enough, were fascinating to the adolescent actor, whose faculties were all aglow39 with ambition to excel, whose curiosity was on edge in every direction to know the contents of the living world which it was his profession to portray40, and whose passions were just breaking from their fullest bud. Nor was he any less fascinating to them. His bluff41 courage, his young formative docility42 and eagerness, his smiling openness of face and bearing, so sadly changed in later years, and the nameless badge of personal distinction and original force he bore on his front and in his accent, drew the men to make much of him. So the outlines of his slender but sinewy43 and breathing form with the muscles so superbly defined, the deep and mellow44 tones of his ringing voice in which the clang-tints of the whole organism were audible, his large and dark-brown eyes so clearly set and brilliant, his fresh blood teeming45 over him in vital revelation at each vehement46 mood, and the speaking truthfulness47 of his portrayals48 of thought and sentiment in character, magnetized the women, secured him many a flattering smile
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and note and flower, and led to no slight experience in amours, which put their permanent stamp upon his inner being, and often rose out of the vistas50 of memory in pictures when he shut his eyes and mused51 in his lonely old age. A biography of Forrest which omitted these things would be like a description of the Saint Lawrence without an allusion52 to Niagara.
In his opening manhood, before repeated experiences of injustice53, slander54, and treachery had in any degree soured and closed his soul, Forrest had a heart as much formed for friendship as for love. He was full of ingenuous55 life, sportive, affectionate, every way most companionable. His friendships were fervent and faithfully cherished. The disappointments, the revulsions of feeling, and the results on his final character, we shall see in the later stages of this biography.
Caldwell felt a strong interest in the young actor, and was of service to him outside of the theatre as well as within it. He introduced him to a higher order of society with more aristocratic manners and refined accomplishments57 than he had been accustomed to, thus affording him an opportunity, had he been so minded, to make his upward way socially not less than professionally. As a keen observer and a quick learner, he did not fail to reap some valuable fruits from the advantages thus afforded him. But his forte58 lay not in this direction. He had then, and always afterwards, a deep distaste to all that is called fashionable society. He was insuperably democratic in his very bones. For the elaborate forms and conventionalities of the polite world he had a rooted repugnance59. He wanted to be free and downright in honest speech and demeanor60, making his outer manifestations61 correspond exactly with his inner states. He could not bear, in accordance with the conventions of the best society, to pretend to be inferior where he felt himself superior, to affect to be interested when he was bored, to express insincere nothings to give pleasure, and carefully hide his most earnest thoughts and feelings lest they should give pain. This art of polished intercourse—quite necessary in our world, and often as artistic62 and useful as it is artificial and compromising—he vehemently64 disliked and was never an adept65 in. Instead of gracefully67 appropriating it for its gracious uses while spurning68 its evils, he impatiently rebelled against it, stigmatizing69 it in blunt phrase as a
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cursed hypocrisy70. This defect in him it is needful to recognize as one of the keys to his character and career. His athletic71, bluff nature, true and generous, lacked the flexible suavity72 of the spirituelle qualities, a lack which prevented his universal success, causing him to jar on persons of squeamish disposition73 or fastidious taste. Until a long series of revulsive experiences had trained him to be silent and reticent74, his impulsive75 frankness and passionate love of freedom made it extremely irksome and chafing76 to him purposely to adapt himself to others at the expense of his own honest emotions. He never could be in the slightest degree a courtier or a tuft-hunter, but—like Edmund Kean, and many another man of genius whose abounding77 and impetuous soul loved nature and truth in their spontaneous forms more than any of the gilded78 substitutes for them—he ever preferred to be with those in whose presence he could act himself out just as he was and just as he felt. His playing in the theatre, instead of fitting, by reaction unfitted him for playing in society. If, on the stage, he consented to seem, all the more, off from it, he desired to be. The basis of this veritable self-assertion was his vigorous manliness79; and so far it was creditable to him. But the extravagance to which he carried it partook of pride and wilfulness80, and was an error and a fault. The code of fashion, tyrannical and imperfect as it is, has uses without which society could scarcely get on. It cannot be neglected with impunity81. Forrest was no exception, but paid the penalty for his independence in the neglect with which Fashion, as such, always treated him.
Among the foibles which especially beset82 the histrionic profession are vanity, greed of applause, jealousy, invidious rivalry83. Manager Caldwell was not free from these weaknesses. His pride as a player was as strong as his prudential regard for the interests of his theatre. No actor in the South had been a greater favorite, and no member of his company had ever rivalled him. He had carefully awakened84 an interest in advance for his protégé, saying to his friends that he had engaged in Kentucky a young man named Edwin Forrest, who had high talent, was industrious86, resolved to rise to the top of the profession, and who, he was sure, would greatly please the New Orleans public. But when the pupil made such rapid progress and gained such loud plaudits that the master felt himself in danger of being
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eclipsed, he had recourse to an artifice87 not uncommon88, though certainly somewhat ungenerous. He reserved the best parts for himself, and cast his rising competitor in inferior or repulsive89 characters, most often in the part of an old man. Forrest saw the design and inwardly resented it, though he said nothing. He followed the wise course of trying to make the best he could of the part assigned him. He made a careful study of the peculiarities90 of age, in feature, in gait, in voice. He would often sit in places of public resort and critically watch every old man who came in or went out. Many a time when he had chanced to discover some striking example of power and dignity or of weakness and decrepitude92 in an old man he would follow him in the street and mentally imitate him, reproducing and fixing what he saw. In this way he soon attained93 such skill that his representations of these parts won him as much approval as he had ever received for the more congenial and showy rôles to which he had been accustomed.
Caldwell was fond of society, cared little for individuals, and, as some thought, held his theatrical94 vocation95 subsidiary to personal ends. The superficialities and insincerities of fashion did not distress96 him. Forrest had an aversion to society, a passion for individuals, and an intense ambition to excel in his art, which he loved for itself. It was quite natural that the friendship of men so unlike, to say nothing of their great disparity in years, should be streaked97 with coolnesses and gradually cease. It was not long in dying, though they continued to get along together comfortably, with some trifling98 exceptions, until their bond was suddenly ruptured99 by an irritating event which will be narrated100 on a succeeding page.
But it was outside of the circle of the theatrical company with which he was associated in New Orleans that Forrest found the most rich and decisive influences, at the same time developing his organism, moulding his character, and enhancing his dramatic powers. These influences were exerted on him chiefly through the five closest friends he had in the city, five men intimately grouped, to be the confidant of one of whom was to be the confidant of all, men of the most remarkable101 force and finish of personality each in his own kind, each of them an intense type of the class he represented. They were all men of great personal
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beauty and strength, tall, supple102, lithe103, absolutely ignorant of fear, chivalrous104 in disposition, loose in habits, kind and loving in their native moods, but relentless105 and terrible in their wrath106. Some insight into the sympathetic assimilation of these superb and fearful persons upon Forrest, and some tracing of the effect on his nature and on his art of the cycle of experience which they revealed to him partly by description, partly by personal introduction, are essential to an understanding of his great career.
Those who are often and long together influence one another more than is usually supposed. Their giving and taking of opinions, prejudices, habits, and even organic peculiarities, are far beyond their own conscious purpose or recognition. Not unfrequently intimate associates obviously grow like one another in look, action, voice, passion, type of character, quality of temper, style of manners, and mode of life. This is confessedly matter of observation; but the law of its operation or the importance of the results very few understand. It is the sympathetic impartation and reproduction, between two or more parties, of inner states through outer signs; and, as to noble qualities, it is proportioned in degree to the docility of the persons, combined with their richness of organization. Those who have plastic nervous systems copiously108 furnished with force, and who are eager to improve, take possession of one another's knowledge and accomplishments with marvellous celerity. By intuition and instinct they seem to reflect their contents and transmit their habitudes with mutual109 appropriation110. In this unpurposed but saturating111 school of real life what the superior knows and does passes into the sympathetic observer by a sort of contagion112. Those whose nerves are capable of the same kinds and rates of vibration113 play into each other and are attuned114 together, as the sounding string of one musical instrument propagates its pulses through the air and awakens115 a harmonic sound in the corresponding string of another instrument. This is the scientific basis of what is loosely called human magnetism116, and it is a factor of incomparable import in the problem of human life.
The one of Forrest's New Orleans friends first to be named is James Bowie, inventor and unrivalled wielder117 of that terrible weapon for hand-to-hand fights named from him the bowie-knife. He was a member of the aristocratic class of the South, planter,
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gentleman, traveller, adventurer, sweet-spoken, soft-mannered, poetic118, and chivalrous, and possessed119 of a strength and a courage, a cool audacity120 and an untamable will, which seemed, when compared with any ordinary standard, superhuman. These qualities in a hundred conflicts never failed to bring him off conqueror121. In heart, when not roused by some sinister122 influence, he was as open as a child and as loving as a woman. In soul high-strung, rich and free, in physical condition like a racing107 thoroughbred or a pugilist ready for the ring, an eloquent123 talker, thoroughly acquainted with the world from his point of view, he was a charming associate for those of such tastes, equally fascinating to friends and formidable to foes124. As a personal competitor, taken nakedly front to front, few more ominous125 and magnificent specimens of man have walked on this continent.
His favorite knife, used by him awfully126 in many an awful fray127, he presented as a token of his love to Forrest, who carefully preserved it among his treasured keepsakes. It was a long and ugly thing, clustering with fearful associations in its very look; plain and cheap for real work, utterly128 unadorned, but the blade exquisitely129 tempered so as not to bend or break too easily, and the handle corrugated130 with braids of steel, that it might not slip when the hand got bloody131. Journeying in a stage-coach, in cold weather, after stopping for a change of horses a huge swaggering fellow usurped132 a seat belonging to an invalid133 lady, leaving her to ride on the outside. In vain the lady expostulated with him; in vain several others tried to persuade him to give up the place to her. At last a man who sat in front of the offender134, so muffled135 and curled up in a great cloak that he looked very small, dropped the cloak down his shoulders, took his watch in his left hand, lifted a knife in his right, and, straightening himself up slowly till it seemed as if his head was going through the top of the coach, planted his unmoving eyes full on those of the intruder, and said, in a perfectly136 soft and level tone which gave the words redoubled power, "Sir, if within two minutes you are not out of that seat, by the living God I will cut your ears off!" The man paused a few seconds to take in the situation. He then cried, "Driver, let me out! I won't ride with such a set of damned murderers!" That was Bowie with his knife. Fearful, yet not without something admirable. Another anecdote137 of him
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will illustrate138 still better the atmosphere of the class of men under whose patronizing influence Forrest came in the company of his friend Bowie.
The plantations139 of Bowie and a very quarrelsome Spaniard joined each other. The proprietors140 naturally fell out. The Spaniard swore he would shoot Bowie on the first chance. The latter, not liking141 to live with such an account on his hands, challenged his neighbor, who was a very powerful and skilful142 fighter with all sorts of weapons and had in his time killed a good many men. The Spaniard accepted the challenge, and fixed143 the following conditions for the combat. An oak bench six feet long, two feet high, and one foot wide should be firmly fastened in the earth. The combatants, stark144 naked, each with a knife in his right hand, its blade twelve inches in length, should be securely strapped145 to the bench, face to face, their knees touching146. Then, at a signal, they should go at it, and no one should interfere147 till the fight was done. The murderous temper of the arrangements was not more evident than the horrible death of one of the men or of both was sure. But Bowie did not shrink. He said to himself, "If the Spaniard's hate is so fiendish, why, he shall have his bellyful before we end." All was ready, and a crowd stood by. Bowie may tell the rest himself, as he related it a dozen years after to Forrest, whose blood curdled148 while he listened:
"We confronted each other with mutual watch, motionless, for a minute or two. I felt that it was all over with me, and a slight chill went through my breast, but my heart was hot and my brain was steady, and I resolved that at all events he should die too. Every fight is won in the eye first. Well, as I held my look rooted in his eye, I suddenly saw in it a slight quiver, an almost imperceptible sign of giving way. A thrill of joy shot through my heart, and I knew that he was mine. At that instant he stabbed at me. I took his blade right through my left arm, and at the same time, by an upward stroke, as swift as lightning and reaching to his very spine149, I ripped him open from the abdomen150 to the chin. He gave a hoarse151 grunt152, the whole of his insides gushed153 out, and he tumbled into my lap, dead."
An intimate of Bowie, and a firm patron and friend of Forrest, teaching him much by precept154 in answer to his inquiries155, and contagiously156 imparting to him yet more by personal contact and
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example, was Colonel Macaire. The real name of this man, and also those of the two succeeding members of the group, are replaced here by fictitious157 ones on account of their relatives who are still living. The two most prominent traits of Macaire in social life were his enthusiasm for the military art and his extreme fondness for horses. He was a finished soldier and officer. The martial158 discipline had left its results plainly all through his mind and his person, in a sensitive loyalty159 to the code of honor, an easy precision of movement, and an authoritative160 suavity of demeanor. The military art, on the whole, regarded in its influences on individuals and nations, is perhaps the richest in its power and the most exact in its methods of all the disciplines thus far developed in history. Its drill, faithfully applied161 to a fair subject, nourishes the habit of obedience162 and the faculty163 of command, regulates and refines the behavior, lifts the head, throws back the shoulders, brings out the chest, deepens the breathing, frees the circulation, and through its marching time-beat exalts164 the rank of the organism by co-ordinating its functions in a spirit of rhythm. It changes the contracted and fixed action of the muscles for an action flowing over the shoulders and hips56 and drawing on the spinal165 column instead of the brain. And every work which can be shifted from the brain to the spine is a mental economy especially needed in these days of excessive mental action and deficient166 vital action.
Macaire was a great expert in horses, ever to be found where the best thoroughbreds were to be seen, attending races with the most avid167 relish168. And it is well known that hardly anything else is so effective in imparting vitality169 and courage to a man as the habit of sympathetic contact with horses, looking at them, breathing with them, handling them, driving them. The popular instinct says they give their magnetism to their keepers. The fact is, the vibrations170 of the blood and nerves of the animal are communicated to those of the man and strengtheningly mix with them. The evil connected with this good is that the companionship often not only imparts vital force and courage but likewise stimulates171 the coarser animal passions. The tendency, however, is neutralized172 in the man of refinement173.
It was from his friendship with Macaire—attending races, going through stables, visiting armories174, drills, and fields of re
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view—that Forrest first learned to feel that keen love for horses which was one of his passions to the end of his life, and first took that intelligent interest in the law of the military drill which gradually grew upon him until he had appropriated its fruits. For the inartistic rudeness of his early gymnastic, his rough circus-tumbling, had left him somewhat stiff and enslaved in parts of his body. But rhythmic175 movements, regulated by will until they become automatic, free the muscles and joints176 and give the organism a liberal grace, a generous openness and ease of bearing. A few months after his début in New Orleans the "Advertiser" remarked, "We are happy to be able to say that Mr. E. Forrest now uses his limbs with freedom and grace." The improvement had made itself plain.
The third of the set of comrades grouped about Forrest at this time was Gazonac, one of the most remarkable of the gentlemen gamblers and duellists for whom the Crescent City was famous fifty years ago. Such were the qualities of this smooth, imperturbable177, and accomplished178 man, consummate179 master of every trick of his art and of every weapon of offence or defence, and such was the tone of popular sentiment in the place, that although gambling was his profession and duelling his diversion he neither had a bad conscience in himself nor was regarded as an outcast by the community. He was a rare judge and adept in everything concerning the physical powers of men, and the expression of their passions in real life under the most concentrated excitements. And he was himself trained to the very nicest possible degree of self-control. His muscular tissue, of the most elastic and tenacious180 texture181, covered him like a garment flowing around his joints as if it had no fastenings, and under it he moved in subtle ease and concealment182, allowing no conceivable provocation183 to extort184 any signal without consent of his will. His nervous system had been drilled to act with the precision of astronomical185 clock-work. His conscious calculations had the swiftness and exactitude of the instincts of animals. What he did not know concerning the public sporting life and the secret passionate life of the city was not worth knowing; and he knew it not superficially but through and through. He had fought a dozen duels186 and always killed his opponent. "How have you invariably come off victor?" Forrest once asked him. "It is
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easy enough," he answered, "if one is but complete master of himself, of his weapon, and of the situation, cool as personified mathematics. I always shoot, on an exact calculation, just enough quicker than my adversary187 for my ball to strike him as he fires, and so disorder188 his aim."
An absolute social nonchalance189 in every emergency, a perfect superiority to the fear of our fellow-beings singly or collectively, is attainable190 only in one of three ways, if we omit idiotic191 insensibility, sheer brute192 stolidity193. First, by ourselves, as it were, impersonating and representing the established standard of judgment194, the code by which we and our conduct are to be tested. This is the assured ease of the fashionable leader, the noble, the king. Second, by utterly defying that standard, and ignoring it, substituting for it a personal standard of our own, or the code of some special class of our associates. This is the sang-froid of the gambler, the stony195 courage of the habituated criminal. He is immovably collected, cool, and brave, in spite of his condemnation196 by law and morality, because he has displaced from his consciousness the social standard of judgment prevalent around him which he disobeys, and set up in its stead another standard which he obeys. His conscience then does not make a coward of him. Self-poised in what he himself thinks, he is not disturbed by mental reaction on what he imagines other people think. The moment he violates his own conscience or the code which he professes198 loyalty to, he feels guilty, and to that extent becomes weak and cowardly. The third method of superiority to fear is by conscious and direct obedience to the intrinsic right, the will of God. This is the imperial heroism199 of the saint and the martyr200. Then the supreme201 code of the universe makes the harmonious202 conscience indomitably superior to the frowning penalties of all lesser203 and meaner codes, and no personal enemy, no hostile public opinion, can terrify.
It was partly by the first, chiefly by the second, hardly at all, it is to be feared, by the third, of these methods that Gazonac acquired his marvellous self-possession and marble equilibrium204 of nerve. But he had it. And the perfected empire of his being in the range of his daily life, his transcendent fearlessness of everything external, his superlative feeling of competency to every occasion, was in itself a rare achievement and an enviable
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prize. He had disentangled and freed the fibres of his brain from all imaginative references to the opinions of other persons or to the requirements of any code but the one enthroned in his own bosom205. To this imperfect code he was true, and therefore, however wrong and guilty he may have been, in his self-sufficingness he did not suffer the retributions of a bad conscience. He was shielded in the partial insensibility of a defective206 conscience. If the conscience of a man be pure and expansive enough properly to represent to him the will of God or the whole truth of his duty, then a neglectful superiority to individual censures208 and to social opinion is an heroic exaltation, which the more it sets other men against him so much the more it shows him to be diviner than they.
Under the guidance of this typical man, who was always scrupulously210 tender and careful with him, Forrest was initiated211 into all the mysteries, all the heights and depths, of a world of experience kept veiled and secret from most people. It was a world of dreadful fascinations212 and volcanic213 outbreaks, extravagant214 pleasures and indescribable horrors,—a world whose heroes are apt, as the proverb goes, to die with their boots on. Together they visited cock-pits, race-courses, bar-rooms, gambling-saloons, and every other resort of disorderly passion and disreputable living. And the young actor with his professional eyes drank in many a revelation of human nature uncovered at its deepest places and in its wildest moods. It was a fearful exposure, and he did not escape unscathed, though it seems from his after-life that he was more instructed than he was infected. He never forgot the impression made on him in the cock-pit by the rings of staring visages, tier above tier, massed in frenzied216 eagerness and regularly vibrating with the struggles of the feathered and gaffed champions whose untamable ferocity of valor217 and pluck seemed to satirize218 the vulgar pride of human battle. Still deeper was the effect on his memory of the scene when, at a race, he saw a vast crowd, including the governor of the State, the mayor of the city, members of Congress, rich planters, leading lawyers and merchants, boatmen, bullies219, and loafers, all armed, yet behaving as politely as in a parlor, restrained by the knowledge that at the slightest insult knives would gleam, pistols crack, blood flow, and no one could foretell220 where the fray would end.
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On one occasion, taking a swim with Gazonac in Lake Pontchartrain, Forrest saw a thick-set and commanding sort of man, with flashing black eyes, his breast scarred all over with stabs. "Who is that?" he asked. "It is Lafitte, the pirate," his comrade replied. A week or two afterwards, he saw Lafitte, in the square fronting the cathedral, running like a deer, chased by a man with a knife. Gazonac said, "Oh, on the quarter-deck, with his myrmidons around him, he could play the hero; but he was not a brave man. Some men can fight in crowds but cannot fight singly. This requires courage." He then proceeded to relate some examples of single-handed fights. Two friends of his fought a duel22 on this wise. They were locked in a room in the dark, naked, each having a knife. In the morning they were found dead in a bloody heap, cut almost into strips. A man who can foresee such a result yet go resolutely221 into it is no coward, Gazonac said.
Two others fought thus. They were to begin with rifles at three hundred paces; if these failed, advance with pistols; and, these failing, close with knives. At the first shot both dropped dead: the bullet of one struck exactly between the eyes, that of the other pierced the pit of the stomach.
In still another case, two men of his acquaintance were addressing the same woman, and were very jealous of each other. At an offensive remark of one the other said, "I will take your right eye for that!" "Will you?" was the retort, which was scarcely spoken before his enemy had gouged222 the eye from his head and politely handed it to him. He quietly replied, "I thank you," and put the palpitating orb223 in his pocket. Then, regardless of the streaming socket224 and the agony, with the ferocity and swiftness of a tiger he turned on his remorseless mutilator and with one stroke of a long and heavy knife nearly severed226 his head from his body, and dilated227 above him shuddering228 with revengeful joy.
Besides listening to innumerable descriptions of this sort, nearly as vivid as sight itself, Forrest actually saw many terrible quarrels and several fatal fights. And the convulsive exhibitions of human passion and energy in their elemental rawness thus afforded were recorded in his imagination and reproduced in the most sensational229 of his poses and bursts. That he should be,
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under such a training, melodramatic sometimes, whatever else he added, was inevitable230. His school was naturalistic and appalling231. Even when he attained to so much that was finer and higher, some portion of this still clung to him. He had, it must be remembered, no academic advantages and no tutor, but was a child of nature.
The fourth member of the Forrest group in New Orleans was Charles Graham, captain of a steamer on the Mississippi. He was originally a flatboatman, and was not only familiar with the traditions of the river and the rude border-life concentrated on its current for so many years, but well represented it all in himself. He was widely known among all classes, and especially was such a favorite with the boatmen as to be a sort of a king over them. Though of a kind heart, he was not incapable232 of taking a frightful233 revenge when wronged or provoked. One of his men having been abused in a house of disreputable women, he fastened a cable around a large wooden pier1 on which the house rested, and, starting his steamer, pulled the house over into the river and drowned the whole obscene gang, then proceeded on his way as if nothing had happened.
Such were the typical men in that half-barbaric and reckless civilization. And it was by his intimacy234 with them at the most plastic period of his life that Forrest so completely absorbed and stood for the most distinctive235 Americanism of half a century ago. Graham was fond of the drama, and was drawn236 warmly to Forrest from his first appearance in Jaffier. He used to come to the theatre sometimes with a throng237 of fifty or even a hundred boatmen in his train. And whenever the actor indulged in his most carnivorous rages then their delight and their applause were the most unbounded. It will be seen that the young tragedian was at that time in a poor school for guiding to artistic delicacy238, but in a capital school for developing natural truth and power.
The last of the five friends who were most constantly with Forrest and in one way or another exerted the strongest influences on him was Push-ma-ta-ha, chief of the Choctaw tribe of Indians, who had a liking for the white men and some of their arts and was in the custom of paying long visits to New Orleans. Push-ma-ta-ha was indeed a striking figure and an interesting character. He was in the bloom of opening manhood, erect239 as
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a column, graceful66 and sinewy as a stag, with eyes of piercing brilliancy, a voice of guttural music like gurgling waters, the motions of his limbs as easy and darting240 as those of a squirrel. His muscular tissue in its tremulous quickness seemed made of woven lightnings. His hair was long, fine, and thick, and of the glossiest241 blackness; his skin, mantled242 with blood, was of the color of ruddy gold, and his form one of faultless proportions. A genuine friendship grew up between this chief and Forrest, not without some touch of simple romance, and leading, as we shall see, to lasting243 results in the life of the latter.
Push-ma-ta-ha was a natural orator244 of a high order. He inherited this gift from his father, for whom he had a superstitious245 veneration246, claiming that the Great Spirit had created him without human intervention247. Whether this idea had been implanted in him in his childhood by some medicine-man, or was a poetic pretence248 of his own, Forrest could not tell. The elder chief died in Washington, where he was tarrying with a deputation. His dying words to his comrades are a fine specimen6 of his eloquence249; "I shall die, but you will return to our brethren. As you go along the paths, you will see the flowers and hear the birds sing, but Push-ma-ta-ha will see them and hear them no more. When you shall come to your home, they will ask you, Where is Push-ma-ta-ha? And you will say to them, He is no more. They will hear the tidings like the sound of the fall of a mighty250 oak in the stillness of the woods."
The North American Indian seen from afar is a picturesque251 object. When we contemplate252 him in the vista49 of history, retreating, dwindling253, soon to vanish before the encroachments of our stronger race, he is not without mystery and pathos254. But studied more nearly, inspected critically in the detail of his character and habits, the charm for the most part disappears and is replaced with repulsion. The freedom of savages256 from the diseased vices257 of a luxurious society, the proud beauty of their free bearing, the relish of their wild liberty with nature, exempt258 from the artificial burdens and trammels of our complicated and stifling259 civilization, appeal to the imagination. Poetical260 writers accordingly have idealized the Indian and set him off in a romantic light, forgetting that savage255 life has its own vices, degradations261, and hardships. Cooper, the novelist, paints Indian life as a series
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of attractive scenes and adventures, full of royal traits. Palfrey, the historian, describes it as cheap, tawdry, nasty, and horrid262. There is truth, no doubt, in both aspects of the case; but the artist naturally selects the favorable point of view, and the dramatist impersonating a barbaric chieftain very properly tries to emphasize his virtues263 and grandeur264, leaving his meanness and squalor in shadow. It is truth of history that the American Indian had noble and great qualities. His local attachment265, tribal266 patriotism267, and sensitiveness to public opinion, were as deep and strong, and produced as high examples of bravery and self-sacrifice, as were ever shown in Greece or Rome, Switzerland or Scotland. Nothing of the kind ever surpassed his haughty268 taciturnity and indomitable fortitude269. And if his spirit of revenge was infernal in the level of its quality, it was certainly sublime270 in the intensity and volume of its power. Although in richness of mental equipment and experience there can be no comparison between them, yet if we had the data for a series of complete parallels and portraits; it would be extremely instructive to confront Philip of Pokanoket with Philip of Macedon, Push-ma-ta-ha with Alcibiades, Tecumseh with Attila, and Osceola with Spartacus. In kinds of passion, in modes of thought, in styles of natural and social scenery, in varieties of pleasure and pain, what correspondences and what contrasts there would be!
The acquaintance of Forrest with Push-ma-ta-ha was the first cause of his deep interest in the subject of the American Aborigines, of his subsequent extensive researches into their history, and finally of his offering a prize for a play which should embody271 a representative idea of their genius and their fate.
However wild and questionable272 in a moral point of view were some of Forrest's closest friends in New Orleans, and freely as he himself indulged in pleasure, he shed the worst influences exerted on him, was never recklessly abandoned to any vice whatever, but held a strong curb273 over his passions, and was uniformly faithful and punctual in the extreme to all his professional duties, steadily274 working in every way he knew to improve and to rise. And he owed in several respects an immense debt to these friends. For, stimulated275 by the sight of their superb poise197, courage, and exuberant276 fulness of animal life and passion, he took them as models, and labored277 with unflagging patience by a care
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ful hygiene278 and gymnastic and critical self-control to fortify279 his weak places and lift his constitutional vitality and confidence to the highest point. He was temperate280 in food and drink, scrupulous209 as to rest and sleep, abundant in bathing, manipulation, and athletics281. His development was steady, and he became in a certain personal centrality of balance, an assured and massive authority of bearing, unquestionably one of the most pronounced and imposing282 men on the continent.
Nor, in that remote situation, in those tempted283 days, did he forget his distant home, with the humble284 and repulsive hardships pressing on the dear ones within it. He wrote to them affectionately, cheering them up, sending them such small remittances285 as he could afford, and promising63 larger ones in the future. With the very first money he received from Caldwell, after paying his landlady286, he purchased and forwarded by ship to his mother a barrel of flour, a half-barrel of sugar, and a box of oranges. His youngest sister, in the last year of her life, described the scene in their home when these things arrived. She was out of the house on an errand when they came. Entering the door, there sat her mother weeping for joy, with an open letter in her hand. Caroline stood with her bonnet287 on, just starting to take a dish of oranges to one of their neighbors, and Henrietta rushed forward, crying, "Oh, Eleanora, here is something from our dear Edwin!"
One evening, near the close of the season, Forrest had made so great a sensation in the audience that they stamped, clapped, shouted, and insisted on his coming before the curtain to receive their plaudits. But he had left the theatre in haste to fulfil an appointment elsewhere, and knew not of the honor designed for him. The people, ignorant of his absence, were furious at what they chose to interpret as his want of respect for them. They vowed288 vengeance289. His benefit was to come off a few nights later. It was whispered abroad that the audience would not suffer him to perform unless he offered a meek290 apology for his insolent291 disregard of their wishes. He determined292 that he would not apologize, and that he would act. His friends, already described, with a good number of trusty followers, each a match for ten untrained men in a fight, were on hand, resolved to protect him, and, as they phrased it, to put him through. As the curtain rose and the youthful actor stepped forward, he was greeted with
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a shower of hisses293, mixed with cries of "Apology! Apology!" It was the first experience of the kind he had ever known, and he felt for an instant that horripilating chill called gooseflesh creep over some parts of his skin. But, nothing daunted294, he at once, in the fixed attitude he had assumed, turned his level eyes on the noisy crowd, and said, in a calm, clear voice, "Gentlemen, not being guilty of any offence, I shall make no apology. When you called me, I was out of hearing. Is it just to punish me for a fault of which I am innocent?" A perfect hush295 followed, and in a moment the changed temper of the audience declared itself in a unanimous cheer, and the play went swimmingly on to the close.
Soon after the theatre had closed for the summer, about the middle of June, Forrest was attacked by the dreadful fever to which the city was periodically exposed. The low state of his finances caused him to dwell in a malarious296 quarter near the river, and to stay there at a time when the city was largely deserted297 by the better classes. It was the first severe and serious illness he had suffered. His best friends were away. He could not afford to hire special attendance. The disease raged terribly. His pain was extreme, and his depression worse. He thought he should die; and then bitterly he lamented299 that he had ever left his home, to perish in this awful way among strangers. "And yet," he said, "I meant it for the best; and what else could I do? Oh, my mother, where are you? How little you imagine the condition your poor boy is in now!" In his delirium300 he raved301 continually about his mother, and sometimes fancied she was with him, and lavished302 endearing epithets303 on her. So they told him after his recovery.
When he had been confined twelve or fourteen days, left alone one afternoon, he managed to get on his clothes and crawl into the open air. He was a most forlorn and miserable304 wretch305, emaciated306, trembling, with a nauseous stomach and a reeling brain. The scene without was in full keeping with his feelings. The squares were empty and silent. The grass was growing in the deserted street. The air was thick, lurid307, and quivering with a sickly heat, while to his distempered fancy, through the steamy haze308 above, the sun seemed to hang like a great yellow scab. At that moment a crocodile five or six feet long crept up in the
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gutter, and stared stupidly at him with its glazed309 and devilish eyes. Horrified310, he shook his fist with a feeble cry at the ominous apparition311, and the giant reptile312 waddled313 slowly away. He sat down on the curb-stone, faint and despairing, when who should come along but his good friend Captain Graham, just then landed at the wharf314 a few rods below! Gazing with astonishment315 at the haggard wreck316 before him, the captain exclaimed, "Why, good God, my boy, is that you?" "Yes," gasped317 the poor fellow, piteously, "this is all there is left of Edwin Forrest." The captain lifted him up and almost carried him to his boat, laid him on his own bed in the cabin, had him carefully sponged all over, first with warm water, finally with brandy, then gave him a heavy dose of raw whiskey. This acted as a benign318 emetic319, and greatly relieved him. He fell asleep, and slept sweetly all night. The next day he returned to his lodgings320 convalescent. And in about three weeks he was well enough to start off with Caldwell and a part of his company on a theatrical tour through Virginia. The following letter tells us how he was then, and what he was doing:
"Petersburg, July 26th, 1824.
"Beloved Mother,—I must indeed beg ten thousand pardons for not writing to you earlier. Although we are separated, think not you are forgotten by me. Oh, no, dear mother, you are ever in my memory, and your happiness is my greatest wish. I hope, my dear mother, in the course of three or four weeks, to be with you on a visit of a fortnight or so, but must then return here to perform at Richmond and Norfolk. I sincerely desire that this vacation may occur. Then I shall see you; and I assure you such a meeting will be as great a happiness as I can possess in this world.
"I hope all the family have enjoyed full health since you last wrote. For myself, I have not altogether been myself since the severe attack of the fever which I had previous to leaving New Orleans. Well, well, I am in hopes I shall mend shortly and be myself again. The country I am now in is delightful321, and the climate far more agreeable to me than that of the South. Please inform me of every little circumstance that has happened lately. How are my dear sisters? Also, where is my dear brother Lor
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man, of whom I have heard nothing for some time? Dear mother, it will relieve me much if you can give me any information concerning him.
"How does the old firm of John R. Baker322, Son and—no, not clerk now! But is it still in existence? Should you see Max Stevenson, ask him whether he received my letter. Make my best regards to Sam Fisher, not forgetting the worthy323 Levan. Where are Joe Shipley, Charley Scriver, and Blighden Van Bann? I have not heard from them lately. Likewise give me all the information you can respecting the theatres.
"Have you seen Mrs. Page? Mother, she is indeed an excellent lady, one who merits every attention and regard; and I am sure your ever-friendly and social feelings towards her will not be lessened324 when you know that it will give infinite satisfaction to your wild but truly affectionate son,
"Edwin Forrest."
His anticipations325 of visiting home were doomed326 to disappointment. In a letter to his mother, dated at Fredericksburg, September 29th, we find him saying that he had been acting every night, except Sundays, and that there was no prospect327 of an intermission. He adds, "I performed Pythias for my opening here, and have succeeded to the delight of all the inhabitants. I had some difficulty with the manager again. He cast me, as an opening part, in Mortimer in the comedy of Laugh When You Can. I refused to play it, and left the theatre. However, in two days I saw my name in the bill for Pythias, and resumed my situation. All has gone on smoothly328 since, and I have triumphed over him as a tragedian in the opinions of those who recently esteemed329 him above praise or censure207.
"As I passed through Washington on the way here, I had the satisfaction of seeing the worthy old Philadelphia manager, Warren. He expressed considerable surprise and pleasure when I introduced myself to him; for I had changed and grown entirely330 out of his memory."
During this trip in Virginia, Forrest saw Chief-Justice Marshall in a scene which always remained as a distinct picture in his memory. The illustrious magistrate331 was stopping at a country inn in the course of his circuit. The landlady was trying to
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catch a hen to roast for dinner. The feat91 proving rather difficult for the aged85 and corpulent hostess, the Chief Justice came forth332 to aid her. There he stood, bare-headed, his vast silver shoe-buckles shining in the sun, a close body-coat and a pair of tight velvet333 breeches revealing his spare and sinewy form, striving to scare the refractory334 fowls335 into the hen-coop, awkwardly waving his hands towards them and crying, "Shoo! Shoo! Shoo!"
A few weeks later, Marshall went to the theatre in Richmond. It was the only time he had ever visited such a place. On invitation of Manager Caldwell, he went behind the scenes, examined the machinery336 and properties with great interest, and revealed his curiosity and naïveté in such questions, Forrest said, as a bright and innocent boy of sixteen might have asked. In recalling the incident when forty-five years had passed, Forrest remarked that nearly every great man had a good deal of the boy in him, but that Marshall showed the most of it, in his child-like simplicity337 and frankness, of all the great men he had ever known. Yes, those were simple times, times of high character and modest living, the purity of the early Republic. And if the above anecdote makes us smile, it also makes us love the stainless338 friend of Washington, the great Justice whose ermine was never soiled even by so much as a speck339 of suspicion.
While at Richmond, and again subsequently at New Orleans, Forrest had the felicity of seeing La Fayette, also of playing before him and winning his applause. The triumphal progress through America of this beloved hero of two hemispheres was a proud recollection to all who shared in it. It was a thrilling poem in action instead of words. The enthusiasm was something which we in our more broken and cynical341 times can hardly conceive. From town to town, from city to city, from State to State, whole populations turned out to meet him, with bells, guns, popular songs, garlands of flowers in the hands of school-children; and he moved on beneath a canopy342 of banners amidst swelling343 music, accompanied by the prayers and tears of the grateful people whom he had befriended in the midnight of their struggle, and who idolized him now that he had come back to bask344 in the noonday of their glory. It was one of the most charming episodes in history, and one which no American heart can afford to forget. Yet in this mixed world the sublime and the
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ridiculous are usually near together. It was so in this case in an incident which came under the personal observation of Forrest. He stood near to La Fayette on one occasion when a long series of citizens were introduced to him. Of course it became a wearisome formality to the illustrious guest, who bore it with smiling fortitude by dint345 of converting it into an automatic performance. As he shook hands first with one, then with another, he would say, "Are you married?" If the reply was "Yes," he would add, "Happy man!" If the reply was "No," still he would add, as before, "Happy man!"
Caldwell re-opened at the American Theatre January 3d, 1825, in The Soldier's Daughter, Forrest taking the rôle of Malfort Junior. During the month he played, among other parts, Adrian in the comedy of Adrian and Orilla, Master of Ceremonies in Tom and Jerry, Joseph Surface in the School for Scandal. The "Louisiana Advertiser" says, in a notice of The Falls of Clyde, "Nothing could be more to our taste than the wild music and dramatized legends of Scotland. Mr. E. Forrest never appeared to so much advantage. Every person applauded him." Some weeks later the same paper remarks, "Mr. Forrest's Almanza is well conceived, and displays great genius."
At this period of his life Forrest was in the habit of writing verses whenever his heart was particularly touched. Quite a number of his effusions, mostly of an amatory cast, were published in the corner of a New Orleans newspaper. A diligent346 search has brought them to light, together with the fact that the lady to whom the most of them were addressed is yet living in that city, the widow of one of its most influential347 and wealthy merchants, and that she remembers well her girlish admiration348 for the handsome young tragedian, and still preserves in manuscript several letters and poems sent to her by him. In his latter days he himself gave the following account of this slight literary episode. "In my youth," he said, "I used to write poetry; that is, as I should say, doggerel349. The editor of the 'Louisiana Advertiser' printed it, and encouraged me to compose more. I used to read it over and think it very fine. But after a few years I looked at the pieces again, and was mortified350 at their worthlessness. Glancing around furtively351 to see if any one was observing me, I rushed the whole collection into the fire. Oh, it
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was wretched stuff, infernally poor stuff! Moses Y. Scott satirized352 my poetry in some lines beginning,—
'With paces long and sometimes scanty353,
Thus he rides on with Rosinante!'"
A selection of three of the better among these pieces will suffice to satisfy curiosity; and it is to be feared that after perusing354 them the judgment of the reader will accord with that of Moses Y. Scott.
TO ——.
"Thy spell, O Love, is elysium to my soul;
Freely I yield me to thy sweet control;
For other joys let folly's fools contend,
Whether to pomp or luxury they tend.
Let sages215 tell us, what they ne'er believe,
That love must ever give us cause to grieve;
Mine be the bliss355 C——'s love to prove,
To love her still, and still to have her love.
If without her of countless356 worlds possessed,
I still should mourn, I still should be unblest.
For her I'd yield whole worlds of richest ore,—
Possessed of her, the gods could give no more.
For her, though Paradise itself were given,
I'd love her still, nor seek another heaven."
TO MISS S—— ON HER LEAVING TOWN.
"Ah, go not hence, light of my saddened soul!
Nor leave me in this absence to lament298;
Thy going sheds dark chaos357 o'er the whole,—
A noonday night from angry Heaven sent.
"Ah, go not where, now tow'ring to the skies,
Malignant358 hills to separate us rise;
For should those smiling eyes, attemp'ring every ray,
That now shine sweetly, lambent with celestial359 day,
Averted360 from me e'er on distant objects roll,
Melancholy's deep shade would shroud361 my lifeless soul.
"Oh, stay thine eyes,—diffuse their animating362 ray,—
And with their smiling pleasures brighten all the day.
But if relentless 'gainst me with the fates you join,
Then go! though still my heart, my soul, is thine.
And when from me so distant thou art gone,
Oh, yield one sigh responsive to mine own!"
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The third piece was composed on occasion of the military funeral of Henry K. Bunting, an intimate friend of Forrest, a young man of most estimable character, whose early death was lamented by the whole community:
"How slow they marched! each youthful face was pale,
And downcast eyes disclosed the mournful tale;
Grief was depicted363 on each manly brow,
And gloomy tears abundantly did flow
From each sad heart. For he whose breath had fled
Was loved by all,—in honor's path was bred.
I knew him well; his heart was pure and kind,
A noble spirit, and a lofty mind.
Virtue cast round his head her smiling wreath,
Which did not leave him on his bed of death.
His image lives, and from my grief-worn heart,
While life remains364, will never, never part.
Weep, soldiers, weep! with tears of sadness lave
Your friend and brother's drear, untimely grave!"
In March the celebrated365 and ill-starred Conway filled an engagement in New Orleans. The witnessing of his performances formed one of the epochs in the development of Forrest's dramatic power. He played Malcolm to the Macbeth of the tall and over-impassioned tragedian, and caught some valuable suggestions from his idiomatic366 individuality and style. But it was the Othello of this powerful and unhappy actor which most impressed him. He played this part with a sweetness and a majestic367 and frenzied energy which no audience could resist. The whole truth of the course of the ambition, love, jealousy, madness, vengeance, desperation, remorse225, and death of the noble but barbaric Moor368 was painted in volcanic and statuesque outlines. Nothing escaped the apt pupil, who with lynx-eyed observation fastened on every original point, every electric stroke, and at this adolescent period drank in the significance of the fully-developed passions of unbridled human nature. It was not long after these mimic369 presentments when the real passions in the darkly-tangled plot of his own existence wrought so convulsively on poor Conway, the friction370 sunk so profoundly into the sockets371 and vital seats of his being, that he went mad, threw himself overboard, and all his griefs and fears at once in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
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Early in May, Forrest's benefit was announced, and he was underlined for Lear, "the first time in New Orleans." On account of bad weather the benefit was postponed372, and, when it did occur, instead of Lear he performed Octavian, in Coleman's Mountaineers. The season closed with the end of the month, when he played Carwin, the leading rôle in the drama of Therese, by John Howard Payne.
The first actress in the company of the American Theatre at New Orleans for the season of 1825 was Miss Jane Placide. She was born at Charleston, and was then, in her twentieth year, deservedly a great favorite with the Southern public. She was extremely beautiful in her person, sweet in her disposition, piquant373 in her manners, and artistically374 natural in her rôles. Among the many private suppliants375 for her smiles rumor376 included both Caldwell and Forrest. Where the tinder of such rivalry is lying about, flashes of jealousy, easily provoked, may at any time elicit340 an explosion of wrath. So it happened here, and the two men had a sharp quarrel. The young actor challenged the calmer manager. He refused to accept it, saying their altercation377 was an inconsiderate effervescence which had better be forgotten by them both. But the temper of Forrest, aggravated378 by his hot associates and the local code, was not so cheaply to be assuaged379. He had the following card printed and affixed380 in several conspicuous381 places: "Whereas James H. Caldwell has wronged and insulted me, and refused me the satisfaction of a gentleman, I hereby denounce him as a scoundrel and post him as a coward. Edwin Forrest."
Caldwell, so far from being enraged382 at this sonorous383 manifesto384, laughed at it, quietly adding, "Like the Parthian, he wounds me as he flies." For in the afternoon of the very day of his issuing the ominous placard, Forrest had accepted an invitation from his friend Push-ma-ta-ha to spend a month with him in the wigwams and hunting-grounds of his tribe; and already, side by side, on horseback, each with a little pack at his saddle, they were scampering385 away towards the tents of the Choctaws, a hundred miles distant. Three reasons urged him to this interesting adventure. First, he loved his friend, the young Indian chief, and longed to see him in his glory at the head of his people. Secondly386, he was poor, and there it would cost him nothing for food and lodgings.
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And thirdly, he desired to make a personal study of Indian character, life, and manners.
The red men treated him, as the friend and guest of their chief, with marked distinction, making him quickly feel himself at home. He adapted himself to their habits, dressed in their costume, and, as far as he could, took part in all their doings, their smokes, their dances, their hunts, their songs. Their rude customs were not offensive but rather attractive to him, and he was happy, feeling that it would not be hard for him to relapse from civilization and stay permanently387 with these wild stepchildren of nature. He seemed to come into contact with the unwritten traditions of the prehistoric388 time, and to taste the simple freedom that prevailed before so many artificial luxuries, toils389, and laws had made such slaves of us all. The fine chance here offered him of getting an accurate knowledge of the American Indian, alike in his exterior390 and his interior personality, he carefully improved, and when he came to enact391 the part of Metamora it stood him in good stead.
One night Push-ma-ta-ha and Forrest were lying on the ground before a big fire which they had kindled392 a little way out from the village. They had been conversing393 for hours, recalling stories and legends for their mutual entertainment. The shadows of the wood lay here and there like so many dark ghosts of trees prostrate394 and intangible on the earth. The pale smoke from their burning heap of brush floated towards heaven in spectral395 volumes and slowly faded out afar. In the unapproachable blue over their heads hung the full moon, and in the pauses of their talk nothing but the lonely notes of a night-bird broke the silence. Like an artist, or like an antique Greek, Forrest had a keen delight in the naked form of man, feeling that the best image of God we have is nude396 humanity in its perfection, which our fashionable dresses so travesty397 and degrade. Push-ma-ta-ha, then twenty-four years old, brought up from his birth in the open air and in almost incessant398 action of sport and command, was from head to foot a faultless model of a human being. Forrest asked him to strip himself and walk to and fro before him between the moonlight and the firelight, that he might feast his eyes and his soul on so complete a physical type of what man should be. The young chief, without a word, cast aside his
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Choctaw garb399 and stepped forth with dainty tread, a living statue of Apollo in glowing bronze. "Push-ma-ta-ha," said Forrest, in wondering admiration, "who were your grandparents?" His nostrils400 curled with a superbly beautiful disdain401, and, stretching forth his arm with a lofty grace which the proudest Roman orator could not have surpassed, he replied, "My father was never born. The Great Spirit shivered an oak with one of his thunderbolts, and my father came out, a perfect man, with his bow and arrows in his hand!"
Whether this was superstitious inspiration or theatrical brag402 on the part of the Indian, certainly the scene was a weird403 and wonderful one, and the speech extremely poetic. Forrest used in after-years to say, "My God, what a contrast he was to some fashionable men I have since seen, half made up of false teeth, false hair, padding, gloves, and spectacles!"
But a sense of duty, in a few weeks, urged the actor to be seeking an engagement for the next season, and, saying good-by forever to his aboriginal404 comrades, he returned to New Orleans and took passage in a small coasting-vessel for Philadelphia, where he arrived with a single notable adventure by the way. For on the third day out they were becalmed; and, suffering from the excessive heat, he thought to refresh himself by a swim. With a joyous405 shout and splash he sprang from the taffrail, and swam several times around the sloop406, when, chancing to look down and a little way behind, he saw a huge shark making towards him. Three or four swift and tremendous strokes brought him within reach of the anchor-chain, and he convulsively swung himself on deck, and lay there panting with exhaustion407. But the ruling passion was strong even then. He immediately went over and over in consciousness, in order to fix them in memory for future use in his art, the frightful emotions he had felt while chased by this white-tusked devil of the ocean!
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1 pier | |
n.码头;桥墩,桥柱;[建]窗间壁,支柱 | |
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2 acting | |
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30 brilliance | |
n.光辉,辉煌,壮丽,(卓越的)才华,才智 | |
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31 piquancy | |
n.辛辣,辣味,痛快 | |
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32 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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33 leisurely | |
adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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34 languor | |
n.无精力,倦怠 | |
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35 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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36 degradation | |
n.降级;低落;退化;陵削;降解;衰变 | |
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37 frantic | |
adj.狂乱的,错乱的,激昂的 | |
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38 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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39 aglow | |
adj.发亮的;发红的;adv.发亮地 | |
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40 portray | |
v.描写,描述;画(人物、景象等) | |
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41 bluff | |
v.虚张声势,用假象骗人;n.虚张声势,欺骗 | |
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42 docility | |
n.容易教,易驾驶,驯服 | |
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43 sinewy | |
adj.多腱的,强壮有力的 | |
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44 mellow | |
adj.柔和的;熟透的;v.变柔和;(使)成熟 | |
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45 teeming | |
adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 );到处都是;(指水、雨等)暴降;倾注 | |
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46 vehement | |
adj.感情强烈的;热烈的;(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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47 truthfulness | |
n. 符合实际 | |
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48 portrayals | |
n.画像( portrayal的名词复数 );描述;描写;描摹 | |
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49 vista | |
n.远景,深景,展望,回想 | |
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50 vistas | |
长条形景色( vista的名词复数 ); 回顾; 展望; (未来可能发生的)一系列情景 | |
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51 mused | |
v.沉思,冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 );沉思自语说(某事) | |
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52 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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53 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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54 slander | |
n./v.诽谤,污蔑 | |
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55 ingenuous | |
adj.纯朴的,单纯的;天真的;坦率的 | |
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56 hips | |
abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯,耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 );[建筑学]屋脊;臀围(尺寸);臀部…的 | |
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57 accomplishments | |
n.造诣;完成( accomplishment的名词复数 );技能;成绩;成就 | |
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58 forte | |
n.长处,擅长;adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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59 repugnance | |
n.嫌恶 | |
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60 demeanor | |
n.行为;风度 | |
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61 manifestations | |
n.表示,显示(manifestation的复数形式) | |
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62 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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63 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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64 vehemently | |
adv. 热烈地 | |
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65 adept | |
adj.老练的,精通的 | |
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66 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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67 gracefully | |
ad.大大方方地;优美地 | |
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68 spurning | |
v.一脚踢开,拒绝接受( spurn的现在分词 ) | |
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69 stigmatizing | |
v.使受耻辱,指责,污辱( stigmatize的现在分词 ) | |
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70 hypocrisy | |
n.伪善,虚伪 | |
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71 athletic | |
adj.擅长运动的,强健的;活跃的,体格健壮的 | |
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72 suavity | |
n.温和;殷勤 | |
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73 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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74 reticent | |
adj.沉默寡言的;言不如意的 | |
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75 impulsive | |
adj.冲动的,刺激的;有推动力的 | |
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76 chafing | |
n.皮肤发炎v.擦热(尤指皮肤)( chafe的现在分词 );擦痛;发怒;惹怒 | |
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77 abounding | |
adj.丰富的,大量的v.大量存在,充满,富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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78 gilded | |
a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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79 manliness | |
刚毅 | |
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80 wilfulness | |
任性;倔强 | |
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81 impunity | |
n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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82 beset | |
v.镶嵌;困扰,包围 | |
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83 rivalry | |
n.竞争,竞赛,对抗 | |
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84 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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85 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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86 industrious | |
adj.勤劳的,刻苦的,奋发的 | |
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87 artifice | |
n.妙计,高明的手段;狡诈,诡计 | |
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88 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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89 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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90 peculiarities | |
n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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91 feat | |
n.功绩;武艺,技艺;adj.灵巧的,漂亮的,合适的 | |
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92 decrepitude | |
n.衰老;破旧 | |
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93 attained | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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94 theatrical | |
adj.剧场的,演戏的;做戏似的,做作的 | |
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95 vocation | |
n.职业,行业 | |
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96 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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97 streaked | |
adj.有条斑纹的,不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 );使布满条纹 | |
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98 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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99 ruptured | |
v.(使)破裂( rupture的过去式和过去分词 );(使体内组织等)断裂;使(友好关系)破裂;使绝交 | |
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100 narrated | |
v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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102 supple | |
adj.柔软的,易弯的,逢迎的,顺从的,灵活的;vt.使柔软,使柔顺,使顺从;vi.变柔软,变柔顺 | |
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103 lithe | |
adj.(指人、身体)柔软的,易弯的 | |
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104 chivalrous | |
adj.武士精神的;对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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105 relentless | |
adj.残酷的,不留情的,无怜悯心的 | |
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106 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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107 racing | |
n.竞赛,赛马;adj.竞赛用的,赛马用的 | |
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108 copiously | |
adv.丰富地,充裕地 | |
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109 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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110 appropriation | |
n.拨款,批准支出 | |
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111 saturating | |
浸湿,浸透( saturate的现在分词 ); 使…大量吸收或充满某物 | |
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112 contagion | |
n.(通过接触的疾病)传染;蔓延 | |
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113 vibration | |
n.颤动,振动;摆动 | |
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114 attuned | |
v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 );调音 | |
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115 awakens | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的第三人称单数 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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116 magnetism | |
n.磁性,吸引力,磁学 | |
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117 wielder | |
行使者 | |
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118 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
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119 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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120 audacity | |
n.大胆,卤莽,无礼 | |
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121 conqueror | |
n.征服者,胜利者 | |
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122 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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123 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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124 foes | |
敌人,仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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125 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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126 awfully | |
adv.可怕地,非常地,极端地 | |
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127 fray | |
v.争吵;打斗;磨损,磨破;n.吵架;打斗 | |
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128 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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129 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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130 corrugated | |
adj.波纹的;缩成皱纹的;波纹面的;波纹状的v.(使某物)起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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131 bloody | |
adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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132 usurped | |
篡夺,霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 ); 盗用; 篡夺,篡权 | |
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133 invalid | |
n.病人,伤残人;adj.有病的,伤残的;无效的 | |
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134 offender | |
n.冒犯者,违反者,犯罪者 | |
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135 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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136 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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137 anecdote | |
n.轶事,趣闻,短故事 | |
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138 illustrate | |
v.举例说明,阐明;图解,加插图 | |
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139 plantations | |
n.种植园,大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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140 proprietors | |
n.所有人,业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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141 liking | |
n.爱好;嗜好;喜欢 | |
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142 skilful | |
(=skillful)adj.灵巧的,熟练的 | |
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143 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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144 stark | |
adj.荒凉的;严酷的;完全的;adv.完全地 | |
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145 strapped | |
adj.用皮带捆住的,用皮带装饰的;身无分文的;缺钱;手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词);用皮带抽打;包扎;给…打绷带 | |
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146 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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147 interfere | |
v.(in)干涉,干预;(with)妨碍,打扰 | |
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148 curdled | |
v.(使)凝结( curdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149 spine | |
n.脊柱,脊椎;(动植物的)刺;书脊 | |
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150 abdomen | |
n.腹,下腹(胸部到腿部的部分) | |
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151 hoarse | |
adj.嘶哑的,沙哑的 | |
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152 grunt | |
v.嘟哝;作呼噜声;n.呼噜声,嘟哝 | |
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153 gushed | |
v.喷,涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 );滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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154 precept | |
n.戒律;格言 | |
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155 inquiries | |
n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 );疑问;探究;打听 | |
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156 contagiously | |
传染性地,蔓延地 | |
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157 fictitious | |
adj.虚构的,假设的;空头的 | |
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158 martial | |
adj.战争的,军事的,尚武的,威武的 | |
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159 loyalty | |
n.忠诚,忠心 | |
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160 authoritative | |
adj.有权威的,可相信的;命令式的;官方的 | |
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161 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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162 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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163 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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164 exalts | |
赞扬( exalt的第三人称单数 ); 歌颂; 提升; 提拔 | |
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165 spinal | |
adj.针的,尖刺的,尖刺状突起的;adj.脊骨的,脊髓的 | |
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166 deficient | |
adj.不足的,不充份的,有缺陷的 | |
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167 avid | |
adj.热心的;贪婪的;渴望的;劲头十足的 | |
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168 relish | |
n.滋味,享受,爱好,调味品;vt.加调味料,享受,品味;vi.有滋味 | |
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169 vitality | |
n.活力,生命力,效力 | |
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170 vibrations | |
n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 );震动;感受;(偏离平衡位置的)一次性往复振动 | |
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171 stimulates | |
v.刺激( stimulate的第三人称单数 );激励;使兴奋;起兴奋作用,起刺激作用,起促进作用 | |
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172 neutralized | |
v.使失效( neutralize的过去式和过去分词 );抵消;中和;使(一个国家)中立化 | |
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173 refinement | |
n.文雅;高尚;精美;精制;精炼 | |
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174 armories | |
n.纹章( armory的名词复数 );纹章学;兵工厂;军械库 | |
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175 rhythmic | |
adj.有节奏的,有韵律的 | |
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176 joints | |
接头( joint的名词复数 ); 关节; 公共场所(尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所) (非正式); 一块烤肉 (英式英语) | |
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177 imperturbable | |
adj.镇静的 | |
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178 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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179 consummate | |
adj.完美的;v.成婚;使完美 [反]baffle | |
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180 tenacious | |
adj.顽强的,固执的,记忆力强的,粘的 | |
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181 texture | |
n.(织物)质地;(材料)构造;结构;肌理 | |
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182 concealment | |
n.隐藏, 掩盖,隐瞒 | |
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183 provocation | |
n.激怒,刺激,挑拨,挑衅的事物,激怒的原因 | |
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184 extort | |
v.勒索,敲诈,强要 | |
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185 astronomical | |
adj.天文学的,(数字)极大的 | |
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186 duels | |
n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 );竞争,斗争 | |
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187 adversary | |
adj.敌手,对手 | |
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188 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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189 nonchalance | |
n.冷淡,漠不关心 | |
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190 attainable | |
a.可达到的,可获得的 | |
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191 idiotic | |
adj.白痴的 | |
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192 brute | |
n.野兽,兽性 | |
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193 stolidity | |
n.迟钝,感觉麻木 | |
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194 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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195 stony | |
adj.石头的,多石头的,冷酷的,无情的 | |
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196 condemnation | |
n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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197 poise | |
vt./vi. 平衡,保持平衡;n.泰然自若,自信 | |
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198 professes | |
声称( profess的第三人称单数 ); 宣称; 公开表明; 信奉 | |
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199 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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200 martyr | |
n.烈士,殉难者;vt.杀害,折磨,牺牲 | |
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201 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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202 harmonious | |
adj.和睦的,调和的,和谐的,协调的 | |
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203 lesser | |
adj.次要的,较小的;adv.较小地,较少地 | |
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204 equilibrium | |
n.平衡,均衡,相称,均势,平静 | |
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205 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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206 defective | |
adj.有毛病的,有问题的,有瑕疵的 | |
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207 censure | |
v./n.责备;非难;责难 | |
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208 censures | |
v.指责,非难,谴责( censure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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209 scrupulous | |
adj.审慎的,小心翼翼的,完全的,纯粹的 | |
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210 scrupulously | |
adv.一丝不苟地;小心翼翼地,多顾虑地 | |
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211 initiated | |
n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始,创始,启蒙,介绍加入 | |
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212 fascinations | |
n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 );有魅力的东西;迷恋;陶醉 | |
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213 volcanic | |
adj.火山的;象火山的;由火山引起的 | |
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214 extravagant | |
adj.奢侈的;过分的;(言行等)放肆的 | |
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215 sages | |
n.圣人( sage的名词复数 );智者;哲人;鼠尾草(可用作调料) | |
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216 frenzied | |
a.激怒的;疯狂的 | |
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217 valor | |
n.勇气,英勇 | |
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218 satirize | |
v.讽刺 | |
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219 bullies | |
n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
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220 foretell | |
v.预言,预告,预示 | |
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221 resolutely | |
adj.坚决地,果断地 | |
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222 gouged | |
v.凿( gouge的过去式和过去分词 );乱要价;(在…中)抠出…;挖出… | |
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223 orb | |
n.太阳;星球;v.弄圆;成球形 | |
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224 socket | |
n.窝,穴,孔,插座,插口 | |
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225 remorse | |
n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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226 severed | |
v.切断,断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 );断,裂 | |
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227 dilated | |
adj.加宽的,扩大的v.(使某物)扩大,膨胀,张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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228 shuddering | |
v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 );发抖;(机器、车辆等)突然震动;颤动 | |
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229 sensational | |
adj.使人感动的,非常好的,轰动的,耸人听闻的 | |
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230 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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231 appalling | |
adj.骇人听闻的,令人震惊的,可怕的 | |
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232 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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233 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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234 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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235 distinctive | |
adj.特别的,有特色的,与众不同的 | |
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236 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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237 throng | |
n.人群,群众;v.拥挤,群集 | |
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238 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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239 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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240 darting | |
v.投掷,投射( dart的现在分词 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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241 glossiest | |
光滑的( glossy的最高级 ); 虚有其表的; 浮华的 | |
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242 mantled | |
披着斗篷的,覆盖着的 | |
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243 lasting | |
adj.永久的,永恒的;vbl.持续,维持 | |
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244 orator | |
n.演说者,演讲者,雄辩家 | |
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245 superstitious | |
adj.迷信的 | |
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246 veneration | |
n.尊敬,崇拜 | |
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247 intervention | |
n.介入,干涉,干预 | |
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248 pretence | |
n.假装,作假;借口,口实;虚伪;虚饰 | |
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249 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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250 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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251 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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252 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
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253 dwindling | |
adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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254 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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255 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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256 savages | |
未开化的人,野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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257 vices | |
缺陷( vice的名词复数 ); 恶习; 不道德行为; 台钳 | |
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258 exempt | |
adj.免除的;v.使免除;n.免税者,被免除义务者 | |
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259 stifling | |
a.令人窒息的 | |
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260 poetical | |
adj.似诗人的;诗一般的;韵文的;富有诗意的 | |
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261 degradations | |
堕落( degradation的名词复数 ); 下降; 陵削; 毁坏 | |
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262 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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263 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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264 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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265 attachment | |
n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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266 tribal | |
adj.部族的,种族的 | |
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267 patriotism | |
n.爱国精神,爱国心,爱国主义 | |
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268 haughty | |
adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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269 fortitude | |
n.坚忍不拔;刚毅 | |
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270 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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271 embody | |
vt.具体表达,使具体化;包含,收录 | |
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272 questionable | |
adj.可疑的,有问题的 | |
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273 curb | |
n.场外证券市场,场外交易;vt.制止,抑制 | |
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274 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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275 stimulated | |
a.刺激的 | |
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276 exuberant | |
adj.充满活力的;(植物)繁茂的 | |
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277 labored | |
adj.吃力的,谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 );苦干;详细分析;(指引擎)缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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278 hygiene | |
n.健康法,卫生学 (a.hygienic) | |
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279 fortify | |
v.强化防御,为…设防;加强,强化 | |
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280 temperate | |
adj.温和的,温带的,自我克制的,不过分的 | |
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281 athletics | |
n.运动,体育,田径运动 | |
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282 imposing | |
adj.使人难忘的,壮丽的,堂皇的,雄伟的 | |
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283 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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284 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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285 remittances | |
n.汇寄( remittance的名词复数 );汇款,汇款额 | |
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286 landlady | |
n.女房东,女地主 | |
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287 bonnet | |
n.无边女帽;童帽 | |
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288 vowed | |
起誓,发誓(vow的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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289 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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290 meek | |
adj.温顺的,逆来顺受的 | |
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291 insolent | |
adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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292 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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293 hisses | |
嘶嘶声( hiss的名词复数 ) | |
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294 daunted | |
使(某人)气馁,威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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295 hush | |
int.嘘,别出声;n.沉默,静寂;v.使安静 | |
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296 malarious | |
(患)疟疾的,(有)瘴气的 | |
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297 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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298 lament | |
n.悲叹,悔恨,恸哭;v.哀悼,悔恨,悲叹 | |
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299 lamented | |
adj.被哀悼的,令人遗憾的v.(为…)哀悼,痛哭,悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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300 delirium | |
n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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301 raved | |
v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 );愤怒地说;咆哮;痴心地说 | |
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302 lavished | |
v.过分给予,滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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303 epithets | |
n.(表示性质、特征等的)词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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304 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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305 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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306 emaciated | |
adj.衰弱的,消瘦的 | |
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307 lurid | |
adj.可怕的;血红的;苍白的 | |
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308 haze | |
n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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309 glazed | |
adj.光滑的,像玻璃的;上过釉的;呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式);上釉于,上光;(目光)变得呆滞无神 | |
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310 horrified | |
a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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311 apparition | |
n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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312 reptile | |
n.爬行动物;两栖动物 | |
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313 waddled | |
v.(像鸭子一样)摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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314 wharf | |
n.码头,停泊处 | |
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315 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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316 wreck | |
n.失事,遇难;沉船;vt.(船等)失事,遇难 | |
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317 gasped | |
v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 );喘息;倒抽气;很想要 | |
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318 benign | |
adj.善良的,慈祥的;良性的,无危险的 | |
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319 emetic | |
n.催吐剂;adj.催吐的 | |
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320 lodgings | |
n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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321 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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322 baker | |
n.面包师 | |
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323 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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324 lessened | |
减少的,减弱的 | |
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325 anticipations | |
预期( anticipation的名词复数 ); 预测; (信托财产收益的)预支; 预期的事物 | |
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326 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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327 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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328 smoothly | |
adv.平滑地,顺利地,流利地,流畅地 | |
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329 esteemed | |
adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 );敬重;认为;以为 | |
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330 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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331 magistrate | |
n.地方行政官,地方法官,治安官 | |
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332 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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333 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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334 refractory | |
adj.倔强的,难驾驭的 | |
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335 fowls | |
鸟( fowl的名词复数 ); 禽肉; 既不是这; 非驴非马 | |
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336 machinery | |
n.(总称)机械,机器;机构 | |
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337 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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338 stainless | |
adj.无瑕疵的,不锈的 | |
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339 speck | |
n.微粒,小污点,小斑点 | |
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340 elicit | |
v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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341 cynical | |
adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的,不信世道向善的 | |
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342 canopy | |
n.天篷,遮篷 | |
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343 swelling | |
n.肿胀 | |
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344 bask | |
vt.取暖,晒太阳,沐浴于 | |
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345 dint | |
n.由于,靠;凹坑 | |
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346 diligent | |
adj.勤勉的,勤奋的 | |
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347 influential | |
adj.有影响的,有权势的 | |
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348 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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349 doggerel | |
n.拙劣的诗,打油诗 | |
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350 mortified | |
v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 );伤害(人的感情);克制;抑制(肉体、情感等) | |
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351 furtively | |
adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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352 satirized | |
v.讽刺,讥讽( satirize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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353 scanty | |
adj.缺乏的,仅有的,节省的,狭小的,不够的 | |
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354 perusing | |
v.读(某篇文字)( peruse的现在分词 );(尤指)细阅;审阅;匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览(某篇文字) | |
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355 bliss | |
n.狂喜,福佑,天赐的福 | |
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356 countless | |
adj.无数的,多得不计其数的 | |
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357 chaos | |
n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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358 malignant | |
adj.恶性的,致命的;恶意的,恶毒的 | |
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359 celestial | |
adj.天体的;天上的 | |
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360 averted | |
防止,避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 ); 转移 | |
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361 shroud | |
n.裹尸布,寿衣;罩,幕;vt.覆盖,隐藏 | |
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362 animating | |
v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 );驱动;使栩栩如生地动作;赋予…以生命 | |
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363 depicted | |
描绘,描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 ); 描述 | |
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364 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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365 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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366 idiomatic | |
adj.成语的,符合语言习惯的 | |
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367 majestic | |
adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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368 moor | |
n.荒野,沼泽;vt.(使)停泊;vi.停泊 | |
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369 mimic | |
v.模仿,戏弄;n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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370 friction | |
n.摩擦,摩擦力 | |
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371 sockets | |
n.套接字,使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 );孔( socket的名词复数 );(电器上的)插口;托座;凹穴 | |
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372 postponed | |
vt.& vi.延期,缓办,(使)延迟vt.把…放在次要地位;[语]把…放在后面(或句尾)vi.(疟疾等)延缓发作(或复发) | |
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373 piquant | |
adj.辛辣的,开胃的,令人兴奋的 | |
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374 artistically | |
adv.艺术性地 | |
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375 suppliants | |
n.恳求者,哀求者( suppliant的名词复数 ) | |
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376 rumor | |
n.谣言,谣传,传说 | |
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377 altercation | |
n.争吵,争论 | |
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378 aggravated | |
使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 ); 使更严重; 激怒; 使恼火 | |
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379 assuaged | |
v.减轻( assuage的过去式和过去分词 );缓和;平息;使安静 | |
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380 affixed | |
adj.[医]附着的,附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 );粘贴;加以;盖(印章) | |
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381 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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382 enraged | |
使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 ); 歜; 激愤 | |
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383 sonorous | |
adj.响亮的,回响的;adv.圆润低沉地;感人地;n.感人,堂皇 | |
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384 manifesto | |
n.宣言,声明 | |
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385 scampering | |
v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑,惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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386 secondly | |
adv.第二,其次 | |
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387 permanently | |
adv.永恒地,永久地,固定不变地 | |
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388 prehistoric | |
adj.(有记载的)历史以前的,史前的,古老的 | |
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389 toils | |
网 | |
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390 exterior | |
adj.外部的,外在的;表面的 | |
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391 enact | |
vt.制定(法律);上演,扮演 | |
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392 kindled | |
(使某物)燃烧,着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 ); 激起(感情等); 发亮,放光 | |
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393 conversing | |
v.交谈,谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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394 prostrate | |
v.拜倒,平卧,衰竭;adj.拜倒的,平卧的,衰竭的 | |
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395 spectral | |
adj.幽灵的,鬼魂的 | |
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396 nude | |
adj.裸体的;n.裸体者,裸体艺术品 | |
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397 travesty | |
n.歪曲,嘲弄,滑稽化 | |
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398 incessant | |
adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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399 garb | |
n.服装,装束 | |
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400 nostrils | |
鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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401 disdain | |
n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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402 brag | |
v./n.吹牛,自夸;adj.第一流的 | |
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403 weird | |
adj.古怪的,离奇的;怪诞的,神秘而可怕的 | |
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404 aboriginal | |
adj.(指动植物)土生的,原产地的,土著的 | |
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405 joyous | |
adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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406 sloop | |
n.单桅帆船 | |
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407 exhaustion | |
n.耗尽枯竭,疲惫,筋疲力尽,竭尽,详尽无遗的论述 | |
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